


Cigarette?

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Short One Shot, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Pipes are for smoking. Cigarettes are for flirting with Watson in public.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 104
Collections: Season of Kink





	Cigarette?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DW 2020 Season of Kink bingo prompt N-5: smoking/intoxication; DW Inspiring Table prompt .42: lust; and DW Holmes Minor August prompt: greatest passion. Thanks to [sans_patronymic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic) for the research assistance.

“Cigarette?”

Pipes are for smoking.

Smoking and thinking. Smoking and brooding. Smoking and talking. Smoking and waiting.

Cigarettes are for flirting with Watson in public.

If he demurs, that’s that, nothing doing.

But if he doesn’t, well, then things are afoot.

It’s a dance. It’s a game. It’s a preamble.

“Cigarette?”

It’s a request. He reaches into his pocket, produces a case, and opens it.

_He shoves me to my knees and opens his trousers and uses my mouth as if he’s rented it for the purpose. He showers me with filthy names as he holds my head in a vice grip and plunges his cock into my orifice, over and over, until he spends._

I take a cigarette. He strikes a match. He holds the flame as steady as he holds my hungry gaze while he lights the tip.

_He cherishes me like delicate porcelain, kissing and nuzzling every inch of skin, whispering tender endearments in a strained voice. He licks me open, slowly, sweetly. He swallows my weeping cock, making love to it with his tongue. I beg for release, and he brings me off in his mouth._

Maybe it happens differently. Maybe Watson takes a cigarette for himself just after I take one and lights his and mine from the same flame.

_We scarcely cross the threshold and haste makes swift work of pleasantries. Trousers and drawers are down, a bit of spit-slicked fingering applied, and he’s inside me. His grunts and groans are interspersed with promises of gentleness once this edge is blunted. These promises he makes good on until dawn._

Maybe it isn’t a request. Maybe it’s an offer. I produce my own case, open it, and offer him one. Maybe I strike the match.

_I tease him to the brink of madness, mapping and re-mapping all the sensitivities of his body with my lips, bringing him to the precipice and denying him release, once, twice, thrice. Making him sweat and, on rare occasion, sob. Distilling his sensation to only pleasure, only me. Worshipping him._

Maybe, only maybe, if we are very much alone, I place two cigarettes between my lips, light them both, and offer him one. Like kissing.

_I put on a show for him, letting his words direct my acts, undressing, piece by piece, pleasuring myself according to his edicts, pleasuring him likewise, exchanging crudities, ending the night twined together upon the bearskin rug before the dying fire, declarations of love drawn upon bare skin with fingertips._

Or maybe I open the case, which bears my initials but holds his Bradley’s of Oxford Street, and he lights both with a soldierly flourish.

_Cocks stroked by my hands, which he loves. Wrists pinned to the bed by his hands, which I love. A quick, hurried, military-style fellating. A sweet slap of the arse. A deep rubbing of a sore shoulder or thigh. A coarse string of battlefield obscenities. Sleep curled together like puppies._

What could become anything starts with but one word.

“Cigarette?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
